What Ales the Spirit
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [CJ SLASH] Jalil never lets himself truly get drunk. In the end, it's always about control-- it always has been.


_What Ales the Spirit_

By Kay (who shall be shot for the horrible title pun)

Disclaimer: Everworld! I may as well own it. The fandom is my baby. pets it

Author's Note: I don' t know what I was on when I wrote this, but it was pretty fun at the time. It's all a little OOC and conjectural, but… whatever. I just was playing around with the idea. I seriously doubt Jalil actually reacts this way when drunk, as it doesn't make sense, but… forget that!

C/J SLASH – so beat it if you don't like it. Huzzah!

* * *

Jalil makes it a habit to never drink too much.

There are many reasons as to why he never takes more than a glass of any sort of alcohol. Part of it is a normal, if somewhat ridiculous, urge to remain in control. He does not like the soft, clouded state of drunkenness, caught between the real world's harsh edge and the fading ripples of his mind. It is too easy to loose himself, too simple to let go of the rigid control and attitude he keeps locked closely around himself. That is something he isn't willing to compromise—he trusts no one enough to deal with an inebriated Jalil Sherman, stripped of all defenses and deceiving pretenses, just as himself, bared for all to see and judge.

The rest of it is more complicated.

He doesn't like being drunk. Not knowing what he's doing, every action dulled and careless, these are all things that anyone can understand. They may scoff at them, but they could understand. But Jalil knows the rest of it is different; _he's_ different in this other aspect, because no one else has OCD.

When he was fourteen, he had his first encounter with alcohol. It wasn't a big thing—he'd stupidly accepted the punch at a party at some kid's house. He couldn't even remember the boy's name, much less why he had agreed to come to the party. There had been no one there to talk to, nothing but shadows glistening off the walls, laughing loudly and hopping on the couch cushions, ignoring the gangly black boy standing in the corner, sipping at his punch because there was nothing else to do.

He woke up in the hallway closet of the boy's house at four o'clock in the morning. His parents had nearly killed him when he got home.

He's never told anyone what happened that night. How as the hours wore on, the music started to pulse in his head like a horrible, contracting heartbeat, all muscle and blood rushing up through his ears. How the world swam before him, made his stomach sick, and he couldn't hear what anyone was saying—it was a blur of color and soundless screaming, music and the hot dampness of a body when it accidentally ran into him.

And the voice.

_seventimesisn'tenoughyou'regoingtocatchalltheirgermsyou'regoingtohavetoburnitoffalltheskinjalilbeforeyouaresafe_

He never heard it directly before. Not until that moment—unable to ignore it, unwilling to push it aside as disgusting madness, he listened to it. Had to. Needed to. It was all he could understand. Those words.

_jalilohjalilyou'restickyandhotandit'snevergoingtoendyoushouldjustcutthemoffwashthemwashwashwashwashrinseandrepeat_

He'd stumbled up the stairs as if in a dream, to the bathroom down the hall, and washed. Washed. Seven times, and then he couldn't count straight, so he started again, and again, and his hands ached and bled, sore, from all the washing. And still it was softly chiding him in his head, gentle and overwhelming.

_nevergonnabeenoughjalilohpoorjalilwashthem_

And people were pounding on the bathroom door, saying muffled things through the wood, but he couldn't listen to them. Had to focus on the voice. It was telling him what to do.

Jalil would never forget that horrible night. Of knowing that he wasn't in control anymore.

It could have been a disaster.

As it was, he'd completely forgotten that time in about a year. Pushed it out of his brain, perhaps—forced it away with all the memories of bad, lonely times in the world, of the pressures and breakdowns he rarely, but sometimes, went through.

When he was sixteen, he drank four glasses of hard liquor in what he later termed a fit of madness—perhaps because he was curious, purely in a scientific sense, of what would happen, of how much he could hold.

At least he had the sense to be home alone.

_'Oh God, sweetheart, you scared us so much,'_ his mother was sobbing above him, stroking his hair back from his brow as if he were a child again. He remembers blinking up at her then—confused, disoriented, searching out the solemn figure of his father standing by her side. He'd been laid out on the couch.

His hands had been bandaged. They hurt like hell.

He doesn't remember what happened that night. When he tries hard to think about it, what must have conspired, all he can catch is flashes in his mind— screams that are both inhumane and his own.

_You aren't the boss of me!_

The upstairs mirror had been shattered. The glass was dragged through his carpet, streaks of red now lingering in the cream folds of fabric.

_'Leave me alone!'_

All the stove knobs were twisted off and scattered across the kitchen's linoleum floor.

_'I can't fucking take this_—_I hate you!'_

The downstairs water faucet had been left running, the sink's drain plugged—the water had spread through into the living room. It took days to dry again.

_'I hate you! I hate you!'_

The backdoor had been left wide open. Muddy footprints went through the entire house, marking clearly where he'd run and stomped—his sneakers were coated in dirt. He had to buy a new pair.

_'I wish you were dead!'_

He doesn't know who he was screaming at. Himself. Not himself. It doesn't matter.

It could never happen again.

So he learned. Never take gulps, never more than a glass, always keep it regulated and in control... he turned an original act of pleasure and recklessness into a highly cautious ritual, rarely partaken, but always carefully followed. Not like Christopher, who drunk until he could no longer feel anything. Christopher wouldn't let loose his inner demons by drinking—he would forget them.

Lugging his broad-shouldered body up the stairs, Jalil feels very bitter about that.

"Step," he says flatly, going up another level. Leaning heavily on his shoulder, Christopher's gold head raises a bit, focusing blearily as he tries to take another step up. Misses. Redirects and finally accomplishes it.

"Thankss," he says, slurring.

Jalil tightens his lips, saying nothing. The dim hallways of the castle of Baldwin are filled with stairways and ramps—it has several levels. They had already fought and conquered two stairwells... but Jalil knows they had two more to go until they reached Christopher's room.

He doesn't know if he'd last that long.

The blonde's head lolls again onto his shoulder, blue eyes of the boy drifting shut momentarily. He smells like cheap alcohol and hay to Jalil—stale and sour, and his nose wrinkles from the forceful stench. Grimacing, the young scientist shifts the heavy form practically falling on him again, trying to get a better grip on his arm.

"Wake up," he says sharply. "We're almost there."

"Hunh?"

"Christopher!"

"I _heard_ you th' first time," Christopher says in irritation, lifting his head with obvious difficulty. "God... you're like m'mother... she's always tellin' me... y'know... pay 'ttension..."

"Pay attention," Jalil answers tonelessly, dragging him around the corner. He feels his body, tense and highly strung from the close contact, clench internally further. "I'll let your brains bust open on the floor if you want, you know. At least _try_ to focus."

"I am... I _am_."

Jalil growls lowly, but said nothing. He can feel Christopher's body shaking with the ordeal, anyway, as it is; sweat beads the boy's temple, hot and sticky, and his eyes are almost glazed over with his drunkenness.

Christopher doesn't believe in holding and regulating his liquor. He doesn't know about control or caution. He flaunts his reckless, wild behavior—he loves the sense of loss of control, the abandon, the lushness... it was what he lived for sometimes, he thinks, lonely in the dark night with nothing to warm his sheets but the memory of a beautiful elf princess and broken hopes of a long-dead future.

But Jalil doesn't know about that.

"Steps," he says, and puts his foot up on the first one. Christopher grunts and does the same. They make their way steadily up the rise.

He doesn't know whether to admire or feel disgust for the way Christopher drinks. He can't understand it, actually, and that would be the most likely way to explain why he hates it so. He doesn't like not understanding things. Wants to comprehend why his friend has taken to drugging himself senseless on ale and spirits every night now, only to accept the torment of his hated enemy/ally dragging him upstairs on the thin bones of his back (or nearly so).

He wants to know what Christopher hears in his head when he's lost control.

A few of the dwarfs glance their way, but mostly the path is empty. Though Baldwin has given them forgiveness for their past sins, many of his people have not been so easy to turn over. Their rooms are farther away, deeper into the castle.

"Steps," Jalil says.

"I saw 'em."

"Did you?"

"I see a lo' more n' you think," Christopher tells him firmly, blue eyes glowing in the shadows. He peers down at Jalil, falling on his shoulder heavily and laughing breathlessly when his savior flinches from the weight. "You're not so tough."

Gritting his teeth, Jalil pushes him back upright. "Apparently not. Now hurry up, your room's just up these, you idiot."

"You're not fun," Christopher whines, but he beings the ascent. They climb in silence—Christopher concentrating on his steps, Jalil wearily keeping an arm around him to make sure he doesn't trip and fall backwards. Dwarven stairs are steep and somewhat uneven; years of climbing around in caves has made their feet used to this terrain.

Christopher's door is locked. Jalil curses and fumbles in the blonde's pockets for a key, without bothering to ask. The blonde watches him with detached curiosity.

"Oh, hell—" And there they are, brushing against his fingers. He snatches them out and fits the largest into the keyhole, and then pushes open the oak door. Props Christopher against the frame.

"I think you can take it from here," he says.

Christopher studies him, frowning slightly. "... you know wha'?"

"What?" he sighs impatiently.

"You're not such a bad guy," the blonde tells him quietly, suddenly with eyes sharper than they'd been all evening. "Y'know? You're a nice guy, Jalil. Too fuckin' nice."

His throat feels dry. He doesn't know why. "I know."

"Y'always take... fuckin' care of me. Like I'm a kid. I hate that."

"Who else would do it?" Jalil asks softly, tiredly. He runs his hand through his hair, letting it fall down to his neck again in whispering threads. "Good night, Christopher."

A hand stops him from leaving.

Christopher is right against him then, swiftly, too fast for Jalil to understand what had happened—and then he was just there, gripping Jalil's forearms tightly and close enough to feel the automatic shudder of surprise that went through his bony frame. He looks at him. Watches in fascination. Blue eyes gone dark and black.

"What do _you_ see, huh? Like, when you're drunk..."

Jalil shifts uncomfortably, but the grip on his arms is tight, clamped down like a vise. "I-I don't know..." he finally admits. "I'm too scared to find out."

He would never have said that if he thought Christopher would remember tomorrow... but Christopher never does.

"Huh." The blonde considers that, looking extraordinarily pleased. Then he focused down on Jalil's face again, pursing his lips in disapproval. "I see a lot."

"Yeah?"

"I see _you_." And then his lips are on Jalil's, moist and still tasting of cheap beer, hard and crushing and just a little off-target, tongue probing into the corner of his mouth, seeking entrance, firm and demanding, wounded and angry at being denied. And his hands have all of Jalil, have all of him in their hold, flush against each other in the hallway with no one else in it, just like that, in the flicker of torches, burning, kissing, and then Christopher stumbles back.

Jalil watches him silently.

The blonde licks his lips. Considers. Then his eyes glaze over again and he mumbles things—words that Jalil can neither catch nor understand, about decisions and time and hate and beauty and perfection and stupid and need and never—and then he falls back to the door again. Goes through into his room, shutting the door behind him almost as an afterthought. Leaving Jalil alone in the hallway, fingers clenched into fists at his sides, lips just a little swollen, and a tiny wavering on his feet.

He swallows the frustration and confusion. The anger. The surprising need, desire. They are all natural reactions, of course. He walks back to his room and stares up at the ceiling in the dark for a long time.

He wants to understand why Christopher drinks. What makes him embrace the world where he could ignore duty and sacrifice, where he thinks doing these things to Jalil is normal and fine, and where he says things, things he can either mean or not.

Sometimes he wonders what he would say to Christopher if he were drunk, senseless and eager to open his mouth to him, in a world where he no longer has to worry about voices that control him.

Sometimes he wonders when he will finally try it.

Jalil makes it a habit to never drink too much. It's hard enough sometimes to keep his feet around Christopher Hitchcock, and he refuses to fall head over heels for the boy metaphorically or literally, because he fears he will hear a new voice in his head this time.

It will say, _youneedhimwanthimlovehim_, and he doesn't think he could take that.

_The End_


End file.
